*This is my entry in the
Valentine's Day Story Contest 2024
.
The man sat at the highly-polishsed teak wood bar of the luxury hotel, slowly sipping his Remy Martin, amidst the barely audible clink of glasses and hushed conversations. He enjoyed the caramel/honey aroma rising from his brandy snifter as the smooth, warm liquid slid silkily over his tongue and throat. He lifted his glass to admire the rich amber color, and smiled to himself as he pondered what his evening might bring.
He became aware of the warmth and a Bulgarian rose and vanilla scent just seconds before he felt the thigh brushing his. The bar stool to his left made a soft groan as she slipped her considerable derriere gracefully onto the seat.
He turned his head toward her and unabashedly looked her up and down with a smile. Cliché, perhaps, but she looked good enough to eat. She was short, thick, and curvy, with smooth pale skin. Her breasts were of average size, but he could make out hard, cherry-sized nipples that he longed to touch and to taste, stretching the shimmery fabric of her plum-colored gown and the midnight blue bra he thought he glimpsed beneath it.
When his eyes finally rose to her face, her chin tilted down slightly as her eyes teased him over the top of her glasses. Her smile was at once coy and knowing, but it was a smile to stop men's hearts. It had nothing to do with her lips. They couldn't be described as full or wide, maybe even a bit thin, and were enhanced with just a touch of sheer plum.
No, it was the way her smile extended all the way to her eyes—twinkling eyes flashing gold specks in their cerulean depths—that gazed at him playfully from beneath long, thick lashes and over the top of her stylish tortoise shell glasses. Oh, he was a sucker for a woman in glasses!
For a moment, images of thrilling new possibilities for his evening swirled in his head. Finding his voice, he asked, "May I buy a drink for the pretty lady?"
"Sure," she replied, her voice low and promising, as she tossed her hair back gently from her face. He mused at how it might feel to tangle his fingers in that hair. She knew her hair was one of her best features.
Most of the time, it fell from silky, gentle waves at the crown to a mass of curls that reached just below her shoulders. But tonight, her curls were swept to the top of her head, where they fell haphazardly in all directions, with a few soft tendrils framing her perfectly oval face. She loved the delicate strands of silver that wound through her shiny auburn curls.
As he gestured to the bartender, it was her turn to study him surreptitiously. He too wore glasses, but with shiny silver rims that suited his slightly rounded face. Even in the dim light of the bar, there was no mistaking the color of his eyes. The word "blue" was far from worthy of describing the depth of color that drew women in.
After losing herself in them for a moment, she took in the rest of his face, open and kind, and most importantly, intelligent. He sported a well-groomed mustache and short beard, white touched by silver, the same color as his thick wavy hair that curled just below his collar. God, how she loved a man with long hair!
The arrival of the young, dark-skinned bartender drew her from her observation. Her companion gestured to her, and she ordered Lagavulan, neat, in a brandy snifter. As she watched the bartender's tight ass walk away, she turned her stool slightly toward the man, the skirt of her dress whispering against her stockinged limb, opening from the high side slit to reveal a fair amount of shapely leg and even some of her sturdy, strong thigh. He spied just the bottom of a midnight blue garter holding up her sheer dark stocking, and his hand itched to feel the sleekness of that leg.
"Remy Martin, I suppose?" she asked, capturing the color and scent emanating from the brandy snifter in his hand. He shivered almost imperceptibly at the husky sexiness of her voice.
"Of course," he smiled in reply, raising his glass slightly to her.
Her golden-brown Scotch arrived, the smoky, peaty smell preceding it, and she raised her glass to him. Their glasses clinked as she toasted, "To an evening to savor."
Their shared interest in fine liquor and wine was an easy topic for pleasant conversation. Their interest in each other led each to further assess the other's appearance.
He earned points with her for his comfortable good taste in clothing. She admired his black dinner jacket with the satin shawl collar, longish, almost like a smoking jacket, and exquisitely tailored to fit his somewhat stocky form. Beneath it was a deep blood red shirt and in a nod to Valentine's Day, his black tie was dotted with microscopic red hearts. Perfectly tailored black pants and expensive black shoes completed the look, and she detected a subtle scent of sandalwood, earth, and pure man.
She enchanted him with the marvelous cut of her stylish stretch-satin gown. Broad straps held up the form-fitting bodice, its sweetheart neckline swooping low and wide, her décolletage reaching from shoulder to creamy shoulder and forming a deep V between her breasts. The skirt draped elegantly over her ample hips and thighs, not tight, but certainly body-skimming, clinging lusciously to the twin globes of her big round ass before dropping to just a few inches below her knees. She was clearly comfortable with her body, including her short stature, as her eggplant leather pumps bore only a small, chunky heel.
Taking a final sniff, the last few drops of his cognac sluiced down his throat, then he placed his empty snifter on the bar with a hushed thud, and glanced at his Cartier watch. "Shall we?" he asked.
"Just a moment," she replied, as she relished the last burnished taste of her Scotch skimming over her taste buds just before the slight burn in her throat. She set the glass down and daintily dabbed her mouth with a cocktail napkin. Picking up her beaded vintage evening bag, she smiled and nodded to the bartender, then purred, "Okay, lead on."
He stood and offered her his arm as she slid down from the stool again feeling her dress ride up, earning her an appreciative glance from a customer at the other end of the bar. She took the proferred arm, and their eyes adjusted to the brighter lighting of the hotel lobby. They strolled easily to the four-star restaurant that graced the establishment.
"Reservation for Rhys," he told the white-gloved maître d', who nodded and conveyed them toward their table. The enticing and varied smells of the food all around them made both eager to taste it as well. As they followed their captain, he guided her with his hand resting lightly in the small of her back, enjoying the barely audible swish of her stockinged legs as she walked.
The lighting in the restaurant was brighter than the dim bar, but was still soft and romantic. The tables were clothed in a rich cream color, matching the walls, while the thick carpet, plush chairs, and elegant monogrammed napkins wore a neutral slate blue. The décor matched the restaurant's amusingly pretentious name: Crème de Bleu.
They noticed the resonance of a string quartet, stationed unobtrusively in a far corner. A scan of the room confirmed that this was undeniably a fine-dining restaurant, full of distinguished gentlemen and dignified ladies in formal attire, all with impeccable manners.
Dropping back slightly to ensure that the maître d' couldn't hear her, the charming lady in the plum gown leaned close and whispered to her well-dressed swain, "Geez, I'm amazed they allow the likes of us in a place this swanky." A wicked grin spread over her pretty face as she continued under her breath, "Whaddya say we blow this pop stand? I'll take the men..."
He snorted slightly trying to contain his laughter. "Behave!" he hissed at her, swatting her lightly on the ass. "Can't I take you anywhere?"
